Gnome Trek. Episode 3: A Blog about Nothing in Particular...

This was to be our third trip in the Gnome and, quite possibly, the last for a very long while. It absolutely needed to go well. 

Which inevitably meant that something would go horribly wrong...

The first day did indeed go well (always a worrying sign). We headed straight for Axe-les-Thermes in the Ariège, a town visited with the kids, a skiing holiday, many a year ago. I couldn't recognise a bloody thing. Had all the buildings been rebuilt? Had the absence of snow changed my view of reality? Was my memory finally failing? 

Answers on a postcard...

Apart from the bubble lifts, all seemed alien to me.

Even in black and white.

Ok, so this was not one of the most isolated of places to stay, even out of ski season, but I was driving no further, so we parked up for the night next to a forest and directly under the ski lifts themselves. 

What could possibly go wrong?

During that night, contrary to all expectations; nothing happened.

For the following night we went further into the mountains, to the Plateau de Beille. This was indeed a stunning place to stop for the night. Little sign of human life, almost no sounds save the distant howling of wolves. And almost no bears.

We had parked next to a precipice for the night, with a stunning panorama before us.

The clouds started to collect over the distant peaks...

What could possibly go wrong?

That night, secure in our little Gnome; nothing happened.

The challenge the next day was to attempt to capture the immensity of the mountains, the depth of the valleys, in a photo. This is far from easy. If you have ever seen the Grand Canyon, you may understand. Despite seeing a myriad of photos beforehand, none give any idea of the true enormity of that giant hole in the ground. This was similar, albeit to a lesser scale. But equally impossible. So I had to give it a try.

We clambered up the mountainside, 

avoiding wolves, bears and, most formidable of all; tics.

The vultures gathered...

Buzzards actually

The picture was snapped.

Thus failing miserably in attaining the perfect shot, we headed west to our final stopping place, in Guzet, to watch the sun slide behind the peaks.

That night; it happened... 

No it didn't....

The next morning, the vultures had nothing to feed on...

House Martins actually

The flowers hung their heads in shame

nah, still not a vulture in sight

We ascended on foot to the peak the next day, to view Guzet from above 

and the flowers from below.

and the valleys from the side.

So what do you know? A few days away without disaster. The storms held off, the bears did not attack, the Gnome did not plunge to almost certain doom.

We had had a peaceful week and now it was time to return home to resume a 'normal life'. A 'new' normal that is, one where the mask has become ubiquitous, where any visitors are looked upon with suspicion, where seeing your own flesh and blood has become a distant hope. Where lies and corruption have become an acceptable way of running a country. Where mango chutney is nowhere to be found.

And now, the end is near, and so I face my final curtain.

Gnome Trek. Episode 2: The Gnome

And so it came to pass, that finally, our camper-van, our new home from home, was given a name. 

Annick’s brain clicked into gear and came up with the name ‘Nomad’, which for the two of us recalls memories of Africa, a place much loved and now much more distant. It also cleverly brings to mind travelling, caravans of nomads. Well, to some minds anyway. 

Inevitably, as with most names, this becomes shortened. Enter the ‘The Gnome’. Gnome, daughter of Nomad the Elder from West Falia.

Our new gnome from home.

A gnome next to the Gnome

The Haut-Pyrenees

This was our second foray with Gnome into the wilderness, and it began with the usual stresses. Having already managed to wound her against a hospital barrier (whilst getting the mother-in-law’s back x-rayed) and having taken it to Toulouse for a recall (the Gnome, not Maman) for its heating system (which required modification to avoid forced shuffling off of our mortal coils) plus screwing back a few things that had already fallen off, we had hoped that all might go well.

Nah.

On packing for our sojourn, a particularly important strap used for closing the roof decided to relieve itself of its pulling abilities by coming off in my hand. Honest! I did nuffin'!

Now, I cannot quite get my head around this sort of unnecessarily crappy construction technique. A handle made of strong metal held in place by two screws does not cost an immense amount of money less than a handle made of strong metal with four screws. And yet one can pull off with a weak tug, whilst the other would not come off in a month of Sundays. Actually, even more Sundays than that. This minuscule saving of effort and cost would prevent much hassle, expense and swearing at a later date. All of which reflects back on the manufacturer. All for two screws.

Pillocks.

Anyway, heading off to the Hydeaway in the Gnome fell at the first hurdle. The above mentioned strap failed completely as a strap, causing the air to change colour from several curses in several languages. Getting help to force close the roof then chucking all the bare necessities of life into the van, we sped off to get to the garage in Toulouse once again attempting to arrive before before the French equivalent of a lunch-break (aka, most of the afternoon...).

Arriving in the Pyrenees later that day, I collapsed over a bottle of wine and allowed the stress to seep out.

And slept...

I, for one, find stress much harder to deal with now than in my younger days. I’m not certain why this is, maybe it’s just because I’m decrepit, maybe it’s because of some lurking age-related mental state, maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner. But I’m not so sure, I think it maybe due to expectations.

All my working life has involved stress, as I’m sure it has for many of us. Studying to be a vet was stressful, especially as one of my super-powers is resitting exams. Working life as a vet is, of course, jam-packed with stress, but for me, the most stressful part of my work life, was running a business. Then there is family. You do not enter into having a family and expect all to run smoothly.

So this was all either expected or at least unsurprising. It all led to one goal, retiring into a life of bliss. No stress. No hassle. No way.

So yes, I have to say that I always hoped that retirement would be a gradual process of exquisite harmony. 

Er. Nope.

Another problem with retirement seems to be losing track of ... er... something...

Where was I?

Ah yes, the Pyrenees turned out to be a welcome relief not only from the aforementioned stress, but also the oppressive heat of endless sunshine. How weird to go on holiday to get away from the heat? We even had to light the fire in the cottage when we arrived...

We left the next day stopping by the local restaurant as usual. Bliss. We set up to sleep just up the road from our favourite auberge, but a rather large group of youths were partying just next to us, so we thought we’d better socially distance by exiting stage right. 

The green grass of the mountains

The following morning we set off for the Lac d'Oô in the Haut-Pyrenees. 

This involved a long walk along a long, steep and gloomy trail.

A long, steep, gloomy trail.

followed by a quick glimpse at a waterfall then a long, steep and gloomy return.

A long gloomy waterfall. It's steep too.

The long steep gloomy road home.

Always one for a photo opportunity, I snapped some photos of the beautiful local flora and fauna:

A spoilt flower, flies on a yellow pyrenean poppy

After this excess expenditure of energy, we slept once more in the Peyragude.

Peyragude

Whilst there, we did a spot of twitching...

A short-toed snake eagle. They eat short-toed snakes.

Driving there turned out to be an exercise in dodging wannabe kings of the pedal. Apparently we were not the first campervan to attempt the Pyrenean leg of the Tour de France. It’s not easy. Those pedal bikers make it look so, but I definitely developed a twitch in my right foot, and Annick’s knee started to ache a little, despite not doing any driving...

That night we slept in our new favourite spot...

And woke the next morning in the clouds. 

Others call it fog...

Trying to get below the stifling clouds, we descended into the valley to lunch by a lake

lac de Genou Loudainville

Where some mad buggers were flying high.

We stopped off in Arreau for a wander around, then headed for them thar hills. 

Place de la Mairie, Arreau

And these are them thar hills...

View from col d'Aspin

We stopped off at the Col d'Aspin were we admired the cows

but decided to head down the valley further, because of said cows and their bells.

We parked the Gnome near another lake for a romantic evening stroll

lac de Payolle

The evening bed making session involved, once more (see previous blog) hassle with the sodding ambient lighting. Pulling the fuse resolved the issue short term, but was even further resolved later the following day when I finally resorted to reading the instruction manual. 

Ooops.

That night we slept in a cow-infested stopover, with accompanying streaming sounds from nature (ie a stream), which complemented my tinnitus but drove Annick another step towards the edge of sanity. Ah, you ask, from which direction?

By now our batteries were running low. Those in the Gnome. Ok, ours too. So we headed back to our base for a recharge, stopping off at a local chateau, as one does...

Chateau de Mauvezin

before setting off the next day in the opposite direction. 

By this I mean going east, not going up.

The Ariège, 

Our first stop after recharging all appropriate batteries was Saint Lizier

Then we carried on south to Guzet, a ski resort strangely lacking in snow. We found a parking space right up at the top, just below where the stratosphere starts. 

The view was breathtaking, as was the lack of oxygen. 

We spent the evening sitting over a deep valley with mountains to the left of me and mountains to the right.  And here I am, stuck in the middle with you. 

One of the best views ever. Perfect. What could possibly go wrong?

We sat there wondering at God’s mighty work as the sun gradually set. “ Good job God” I said, ‘Very nice work, especially the squiggly bits.”

God replied “Nice? I’ll give you nice!”

That night he struck with his mighty war hammer. In wrath, he set asunder, with deafening thunder, blinding lightning, plagues of locusts and added squiggly bits. The Gnome took it in her stride. She occasionally wiggled a bit and I was afeared that the roof might fly off into the west. But no, she was fine. 

I slept well despite the after-storm added cowbells. Annick, on the other hand, was a simpering wreck by the following morning. It was good to see her back to normal.

The morning was glorious. We were above the clouds as the sun rose over the mountain peaks. 

Unfortunately the clouds then decided to do the same, leaving us in perpetual gloom, so we set off to the Cirque de Cagataille further down the valley.

Access to the Cirque was along a narrow pathway, that became narrower, then became less than a pathway, more of a rocky slope. 

There had been a choice of pathways; ‘sportif’ or ‘familial’. The familial option seemed the more more cautious, so off we toddled. Clearly french families are all mountain climbers and don’t have young children or, as in our case, old farts.

Against all the odds we made it to the rock where the Cirque could be seen in all its magnificence. Or, maybe, could have been, if it wasn’t enshrouded in cloud. 

Which it was.

An alternative to mountains.

This was not to be our day for further magnificent sights, so we toddled back again.

Then came the great debate. Proposal A: Do we move the van a few yards to a secluded level area to spend the night close to nature, or Proposal B: Do we chance it, probably end up in some noisy lay-by, frustrated and tired? 

Staying put meant communing with nature to the point where, aghast, there was little or no internet, moving would have been for the sole purpose of gaining access to the world-wide-wimp. 

The choice seems obvious, but to win this ‘debate’ meant being the only one who could, as yet, drive the Gnome. The Gnome stayed put.

You may have got the impression from this blog that all the excitement happened at night. Those were the days. This night all was calm and I slept soundly. The same sounds kept Annick awake, you know, nature ‘n stuff, but heh, we can’t have it all can we?

The following morning opened to lifting clouds, a new opportunity to see if the Cirque had come to town.

So we set off again along the pathway to certain doom.

It was worth the effort.  

It was now time to head homeward. This, unfortunately uncovered the slight flaw in Proposal A. The secluded spot we had parked in was at the bottom of a steep slope, one made more of gravel than was absolutely necessary. My magnificent Gnome, she of four-wheel drive and more horses than you can shake a stick at, failed halfway up this slope. Carefully reversing and slip-sliding backwards, I managed to find enough space before falling backwards to our certain doom. A 5 metre acceleration and we were up, albeit sustaining some ominous knocks on the way. 

The Gnome had made it, and she was unharmed. I, however, had felt its effects on my physiology.

I may have mentioned previously some of my super-powers. Well, here's another one. At moments of extreme need, the 'flight or fight' system switches on, causing the adrenals to pump adrenaline into our blood stream. This is meant to help us out of dangerous situations. Well, with me, the spasming contraction of the adrenals lets rip excruciating pain up my back, thus making me totally immobile. What a useless piece of junk my highly evolved physiological system is. 

With a certain amount of teeth-gritting, we headed on our way, in desperate search of coffee....

Stopping only in the centre of the Ariege to take in the view at col de Catchaudégué 

Thus ends our second adventure with the Gnome, our new companion forged of steel, power, space and several loose bits that drop off every now and then.

Well, no one's perfect. .

Gnome returns home

Gnome Trek. Episode 1: Escape

It’s been a long long time...

Well, we’ve finally managed to get to the Pyrenees, to the very edge of what could, at a stretch, be called civilisation. At least, it used to appear civilised, but it now seems that it was but a thin veneer, a joke, a virtual reality easily broken by any passing would-be king. Maybe that explains my constant striving to get away from it, whatever 'it' is. 

However, getting away is nigh on impossible. Even here we find the dreaded broadband. It's true that the 'broadband' here might better be called ‘narrow-dribble’ but it does keep us connected. Of course, we can never truly get away from it all can we? Responsibilities are ever there, shadowing our every move. 

Still, I’ve gotta say, so far so good. That is, if you ignore the fact that the Motherer-in-law (the new 'er indoors) had her first real fall (or ‘Chute’ as they call it over here; great word) just before we left on our sojourn. Thankfully she has a few vertebrae left untouched. 

And if you ignore the cleaning that needed doing in our spider and mildew ridden Hydeaway in the Pyrenees. 

I must say I think I should be congratulated here. On choosing the right wife. She somehow manages to alter the laws of physics when cleaning and tidying. Whereas my superpower is more along the lines of the creation of chaos. 

We fit together well. I think that’s what she means when she says she can’t do without me...

Anyway, despite all of the above, we gradually developed what was close to a sense of freedom. As much as we love maman, she has effectively tied us down a little. Cough cough. 

This is the longest we’ve been away from home for four months. FOUR BLOODY MONTHS!! The previous record being three hours when I went to pick up the vehicle of our new-found freedom, a VW transporter. Possibly the pandemic has also had some little part to play.

Our van really does need a name you know, as I think we may become very dependent on her over the coming years. If we can survive the coming apocalypse engineered and aided by Trump, Cummings and Johnson. 

Hang on, stress is returning. I’m going to relax in a bath.....

......

My god! My first bath in over five months. Jesus it was good. 

And to add to our pleasure, we were just about to head off beyond the borders of 'civilisation', deeper into the Pyrenees. And our first stop was to be at Peter and Babette’s auberge! Christ, I can’t type for salivating. 

Day 2

And so we passed our first night in our camper. 

Spoiler alert: it did not go well.

Setting up the van was no problem. Bed; sorted. Canopy; sorted. Hot water; sorted. Beverages; sorted.  Security; sorted. Anti-viral missiles; sorted. All, that is, until we came to the humungously difficult task of turning the stupid lights off. 

Normally this would take the opposite approach to turning them on, wouldn’t you think? Turning them on; sorted. Turning them off....

Motor lights; off. Kitchen lights; off. Reading lights; off. Cabin lights; off. Ambient lighting.... WTF is ambient lighting? 

Whatever it is, it would in no way desist from blasting its mini-LED sun-flare emission multi-bulbs directly through our lidded corneas and into our retinas and thus onto our visual cortices. 

Ambience dislikes being turned off. 

Ambience wants to stay on. 

I tried the usual high-tech stuff like pressing on the fucking light switch, but all to no avail, despite pressing the bloody thing multiple times casting multiple foul aspersions. 

Thus we attempted to sleep in what felt like a flood-lit Millenium Stadium. Albeit slightly smaller. 

As if this were not to suffice, the local religious orders in the form of the Catholic Bleedin’ Church had decided that all their sheep needed to know the time every quarter of an hour, twenty four hours a day. Praise the Lord! 

That meant that the three nearby churches rung their sodding cloches every quarter of an hour, with the nearest and dearest doing that quaint frenchy thingy where they repeat the chimes after a couple of minutes. At midnight, most of the village must have thought that’s it was 48 o’clock. 

They kept it up all night. Very fucking quaint.

The addition of yowling cats and yapping chihuahuas was nearly irrelevant.

Nearly.

.......

The following day, which arrived after an interminably long time, led me to search for the cause of the blazing laser beam problem. 

Totally disconnecting the switch, that which would normally be considered a final solution, made sod-all difference. 

This came as something of a surprise. 

Thus I set off in search of the fuses. How difficult could that be? 

Several hours later..... 

Finally the fuse was discovered cowering timorously underneath the fridge. I ripped it out with a vengeful yank.... and the ambience became non-ambient.... we were finally free of retinal burns and could continue on our way....

Which we did.

We headed off to see various medieval villages and castle ruins. First came the village of St Bertrand-de-Comminges, 

with its overlord edifice the Basilique St Just.

This quaint village had much to offer, such as arcane queers...

Moving on...

We headed for a little known ruin called Chateau de Bramevaque

this remote spot could provide us with protection perhaps from the dreaded bells. Yes! Shelter...

or not...

The view wasn't bad though...

Having decided to try a second evening in the camper, we headed for the mountains well away from other human life, bells and chihuahuas. 

We found the perfect spot, with formidable views of valleys and mountains. 

Perfect, as I may have said.

A glass or two of wine later, I trialled the kitchen unit, cooking steak, sweet potato chips with onion and various spicy stuff. 

“Oh yes. This is good” I said. 

“Oh yes?” spake another voice. “We’ll see to that” and the skies opened, with thunder, lightning, hail, cats and various dogs. This is, after all, the Pyrenees. 

It looked like tonight would be a much better night....

Day 3. And we awake to a brand new day...

We had actually managed, beyond all expectations, to sleep. This could have been due to the extreme sleep deprivation that we were both suffering, or possibly to the lack of interrogatory torture devices, but we were both pleased with the resultant dormant states. 

I had slept like a log, although logs normally do not make a huge amount of noise during the night, so maybe you should say that I slept like a dog. Not one of those little yappy things that some dog owners mistakenly take-on ‘cos they think they look cute, then turn into miniature ugly raving lunatics, not one of those that wake you up for a pee at 4:30 in the morning, but more one of those big fat hairy things that I am more fond of, and to whom I more accurately resemble.

So, all in all, a much better night than the previous one, thus a good start to the day. 

Opening the curtains to a mountain vista certainly ups your spirit somewhat,

helping to put aside those woes of real life, such as Bori.....’ang on, I’m drifting off subject again...

My morning walk down the mountainside allowed my trusty camera to take pictures of insects small and mountains large, with a few trees in between. 

On reaching the bottom of the mountain, I was somewhat surprised to see that my return trip to the (as yet still unnamed) van involved a steep uphill climb. 

My bad.

After recovering my breath and my sanity alike, we moved onto a neighbouring peak to stop for lunch. By now the clouds were emptying themselves of their burden. The magnificent views had to be believed to be seen. (See what I did there?) There being nothing else to do, a siesta seemed like a sound plan of inaction. 

By the time we moved on, the clouds had decided to descend somewhat, transforming themselves from fluffy white stuff packed with angels and the like, into dense impenetrable thick pea-souper stuff designed to make you think that the road is over there and not over there... 

Me? I preferred the angel-packed stuff. 

Then it went from fog back to rain again, which I felt was totally unnecessary. 

You gotta love the mountains.

As a point of order here, I do love the mountains. The ever-changing scenery is so much more interesting than the more popular option; the sea. The sea has a strange tendency of being flat, wet and boring, except when it isn’t flat, in which case I, even more, do not want to be there.

Besides, Annick gets seasick stepping over a puddle. 

Other choices are available. The coast, for example offers huge possibilities in the viral transmission, skin cancer, wallet emptying department. Me? I prefer a more natural nature. Call me old-fashioned...

We stopped overnight outside our favourite restaurant (again) and somehow got sucked inside. 

Restaurants can be dangerous places. They are like Sirens. They call, they lure, you follow. You feed on their flesh. You fall spent to the ground. 

I think I may have been reading too much Greek tragedy lately...

It was a dark misty night in the dark misty forest on the dark misty mountain...

Sleeping in the van got me out of having to drive in a state of recently enhanced inebriation, and further allowed us to test both the van and our resolve.

There was an eerie familiarity trying to sleep inside our new cosy womb. 

There were bells...

More bells...

This time; not the bells of future glory in the sight of our most beloved super-being vampire despot. More the bells of a future dinner or two. The local cattle herd was nonchalantly wandering around the mountainside, bells a-clanging. That, combined with a gentle rain, was almost hypnotic. 

“This is so romantic” I said, to a by-now-sleeping lover....

Maybe next time...

......